


Hellish, I Imagine

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Demon!Jim, Gen, Hurt!Sherlock, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6480115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260408517&posted=1#cmt260449477">this prompt</a>. Instead of faking his death, Sherlock makes a deal with demon!Jim—his soul will spend two years in hell in exchange for the safety of his friends. Obviously, Jim has lots and lots of plans for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellish, I Imagine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jagnikjen for beta-ing!

_“I’m prepared to do anything,” he said, “prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.”_

_Jim looked him in the eyes for a long moment, then a slow, unpleasant smile slid across his face. “That might be a surprisingly good idea. Not the one about shaking hands, of course. That’s too trite. But I’d enjoy spending time in hell with you. Say, two years?”_

At uni, Sherlock had come across a sumptuously illuminated medieval manuscript that described what awaited souls in hell, a leather-bound book with crispy yellowed pages and little colourful illustrations. He hadn’t deleted its contents from his mind, however irrelevant to real life they were, because he’d been fascinated with it, in a way. It was interesting how resourceful a human mind could be when inventing tortures for others.

Now he suspects that those pictures weren’t a creation of someone’s sick fantasy at all, more like a horrible sneak peak into the realm of afterlife.

When Jim had said, “I’ll burn the heart of you”, who could have thought that he’d meant it literally? The problem is, it’s not terminal, not here, not in hell. Sometimes Sherlock wishes it would be.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on here,” Jim sing-songs cheerfully, skimming a hand along Sherlock’s completely restored chest—lower and lower, down to the fluttering muscles of his abdomen. “We’ll have so much fun together. I’ve got great plans for us.”

Sherlock used to think of his body as transport, but now he doesn’t actually have it—and yet his torn flesh hurts, and he can’t stop himself from feeling it as something physical.

The times when he’s left alone in the darkness are hardly better. With no distractions whatsoever, deprived of sight, sound, and smell, he tries to console himself with thinking of John, safe from Jim’s clutches, but soon his imagination starts reeling. It shows him unwanted pictures of John at a cemetery, contemplating a newly dug grave, and then at Baker Street, weighing a gun in his hand. No, no, no. John wouldn’t do that, Sherlock tells himself again and again, but the mere thought of it tears him apart, drives him mad. They both need to survive though these two years. _Will you do it for me, John? Just stay alive, and I’ll try my best to stay sane._

How much time has already passed? Months? A year?

Jim’s laugh startles him. “You’re so boringly naïve, my dear. Don’t you know that time goes differently in hell? It’s only been a few minutes.”

***

At first, he’d wondered how Jim was going to return him to the Earth. What had happened to his body? Had it been buried?

After some time, there’s no curiosity left.

In the darkness, he feels terribly alone, almost wishing that Jim would come and torture him.

And Jim does come. Always.

***

No curiosity. No hope. No strength.

It’s never going to end.

Fires and hooks, spikes and screws, pliers and racks.

“You’re becoming dull,” Jim says, tapping a white hot poker at Sherlock’s thigh, but eliciting only a hoarse, barely audible groan. “You’re not cursing anymore, you’re not even screaming properly. This whining, or whatever you call it, doesn’t count. You’ve lost your temperament. Where’s your spirit? I’m sooo disappointed, Sherlock. You’re not fun anymore. But still, I’ve got something spectacular planned for you, my favourite plaything. It’s not like it’ll cheer your up…but it’ll cheer _me_ up, I’m sure of it. Oh, it’s going to hurt so good!”

Sherlock dimly wonders what torture it might be. They seem to have tried everything, sometimes not just once.

His eyes are closed, but a strange light seeps through his eyelids. Not the flickering of a flame. More like…sunlight? Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter. He blinks. The first thought that startles him—his body doesn’t ache anymore, not really, though it’s strangely cramped, like he’s fallen asleep in an awkward pose. His throat feels terribly dry, and there’s something like an oxygen mask on his face. There’s a white ceiling above him. And he’s lying in bed. A hospital bed, with a monitor beeping steadily beside it.

“He’s awake,” someone says. “Call Mr. Holmes, now. Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, still disoriented. Is it Jim’s trick, the torture he’d promised? A glimpse of freedom, of real life—and then what? A trip back to hell?

By the time Mycroft arrives, Sherlock knows that he’s been in a coma for two years. Exactly two years since he’d jumped from the roof of St. Barts. No one seemed to believe that he’d wake up, but his elder brother kept him on life support anyway, all this time.

“Is John coming too?” Sherlock asks, and fear suddenly fills his heart like burning hot glue when Mycroft winces at the question, as if a tooth pains him.

“Where’s John? Is he all right?” Sherlock demands, panic rising. Has something happened to him? What if…no, no, it can’t be!

“John is fine,” Mycroft says reassuringly, yet his expression is taut.

“He’s fine, but?” Sherlock insists.

“There were almost no chances of you waking up. I believed it would be more…merciful if John thought that you were dead.”

“Does he know _now_ that I’m alive?”

Mycroft shakes his head.

Sherlock’s heart starts beating normally again, and he almost feels himself smiling, a long-forgotten twitch of facial muscles. “I think I’ll surprise John. Pop into Baker Street. Who knows—jump out of a cake.”

Mycroft frowns. “Baker Street? He isn’t there any more. Why would he be? It’s been two years. Sherlock, you should know… He’s got on with his life. He’s going to get married soon.”

It really hurts more than any other torture Jim could have invented.


End file.
